


Nick Cutler, 1950

by KindlyOnes



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindlyOnes/pseuds/KindlyOnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick Cutler wakes up on an expensive fainting couch after being called to meet a new client at the police station with only vague memories of a corridor with men in it. Something is amiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deductions

Nick Cutler gasped for breath and sat up. It was not as refreshing as he expected it to be. He felt cold, sick, and empty. He rubbed his chest. It felt like a vacuum. There should be more pressure, more something. He blinked his eyes again and again. They hurt. So did his gums on either side of his front teeth.

_I’ve got to stay calm._

Cutler was a solicitor. He was analytical. He was logical. And he could reason his way through this.

Item number one: where was he? Sitting on a velvet chaise. Specifically a fainting couch. Antique. Expensive. Previously he had been lying on a fainting couch. Presumably he had fainted? He was indoors, in a sitting room, though it was so fancy it might be more accurately described as a parlor or salon. Judging by the architecture and the cost of the items in the parlor, the rest of the house was quite large.

Item number two: how had he gotten there? His last memory was being called the cells for a new case… and then it got fuzzy. He had the strangest dream while he was passed out. Men in a corridor. The dream wasn’t important. The present was important. His last clear memory was driving to the station thinking how cross Rachel was going to be about him working so late again. _She won’t say anything. She’ll just sulk and turn away on her side in bed._

He should call her. The most reasonable explanation was that he had some sort of fainting fit, probably due to exhaustion from overwork, and some good Samaritan had brought him here. He did remember arriving at the station, so an automobile accident was out of the question. _For fuck’s sake, no one at work had better find out about this or I’ll get some charming nickname._

Which led to item number three: who had brought him here and where were they now? Surely not one of his clients. No one with this much money needed a duty solicitor. They would have someone on retainer. No policeman had this much money either. Most likely another solicitor. _Fuck._

Cutler stood, meaning to head for the door. There would most likely be a butler he could speak with. Upon standing, he felt so sick and hollow, he was worried if he would make it to the door. Had he injured his head? Why did his gums hurt, of all things?

“Excuse me?” he called out. He looked for a bell. Didn’t these sorts of houses have bells to summon servants? He did not faint again, but his voice was raspy. He rubbed his swollen tongue over the dry roof of his mouth and swallowed what little saliva he could find. “I said, excuse me? I, I believe I’ve had some sort of… accident?” He tried clearing his throat again and walked towards the closed door.

The door opened and a man stepped through. His suit said butler.

“Sir?” said the butler.

“Yes, um, hello. My name is Mr. Cutler. I’m a solicitor. I think I was injured and brought here and…” _I have no shitting clue where I am and I would like to know if I’ve been kidnapped._ Cutler didn’t know how to finish his sentence out loud.

“Yes, sir.” The butler didn’t say anything else. He was awfully taciturn and unhelpful for a butler.

“And I would like to know—that is, could you possibly tell me where I am? I’m afraid I might have a head injury.”

_Was that a smirk?_

“Yes, sir. His Lordship has requested you remain here and he will be with you presently.”

The butler left. Cutler heard a click. He had locked the door behind him. He had heard the same click when the butler came in. He had been previously locked in as well. This was starting to seem less like a rescue and more like abduction.


	2. Drinks

Something was amiss in this house. Cutler knew it from the moment he realized the door had been locked, and the walk to see “his Lordship” only confirmed his suspicions. He saw a maid on his way to the study. She looked sick and frightened. After she had passed them, she nearly ran down the hall. Butlers that lock you in. Maids that run away. This was all very, very bad.

The butler knocked on a carved wood door. “Enter,” said someone from within.

The butler opened the door and stepped inside. “Mr. Cutler to see you, your Lordship.” The butler stood aside and Cutler entered the room. Inside was a single man in a fine suit, sitting with his legs crossed. The curtains were drawn, as they had been in the parlor, so that only some light filtered in through a gauzy white fabric.

The man stood and faced Cutler, smiling genially. He held out his hand. “Mr. Cutler. So good to see you again. Please, do sit down.”

_I know you._

“Thank you, sir, sorry, your Lordship,” said Cutler.

The man laughed. He looked to be about Cutler’s age, but much wealthier. He was pale in completion with hazel eyes and brown hair. “’Sir’ is fine for now, though perhaps in the future we may become more familiar with one another. I am told you do not recall the events at the police station?”

“No, sir, I do not. I take it I’ve sustained some sort of head injury?” said Cutler.

The man smiled, and unlike before, there was a brightness in his eyes. He did not seem concerned for any injuries Cutler may have sustained.

“Then allow me to introduce myself again. My name is Henry Yorke. My usual solicitor passed away unexpectedly, so you were called in for an interview. I’ve heard great things about you.” He looked like he was going to start laughing at any moment.

Cutler wanted to run, but he knew he’d never make it. He didn’t even know the way out. “Are you having legal troubles, sir?”

“Many. And frequently. Please, sit back. Relax. Tell me the last thing you remember.”

Cutler sat back. He was overtaken by the feeling that he should do everything this man said. He searched his memory. His head had cleared up a bit since he first woke up, and he was starting to remember more about the police station. “Yes, well, the last thing I remember clearly was driving to the station. I had gotten a call from my firm. I recall arriving. And I believe I recall your name on a sheet of paper and…” Cutler paused. This bit was unclear. It was difficult to separate out what had happened and what he dreamt about while he was unconscious. “And I remember your face. I think it was the last thing I saw before I passed out.”

Mr. Yorke sat in silence, looking at Cutler expectantly. He looked positively giggly. Surely this was some practical joke by his firm, but that maid had looked so genuinely frightened.

Cutler cleared his throat. It was so dry. He wasn’t sure if he should ask for water. If this man was a madman, the water might be drugged or poisoned. Perhaps this man was a spy here to recruit him. Perhaps this man was a serial killer.

Mr. Yorke steepled his fingers and looked at Cutler over them, smiling. Waiting. Cutler met his gaze and said nothing.

Mr. Yorke sighed, put his hands down, and uncrossed his legs huffily. He still looked too pleased to be normal. “Well played, Mr. Cutler, well played. Sometimes this happens. I expect your memories will return to you in full after you have a drink, but let’s see what you make of this.” Mr. Yorke leaned forward, lips curling back into a grimace, eyes going wide, and then they went black, and his fangs came out.

Cutler may have been from Liverpool, but contrary to popular belief, he was still British and reacted in the classic British manner of keeping a straight face and not giving away his emotions. He’d lived through WWII, for Christ’s sake. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. He turned his head side to side slightly to see if he could spot a flaw in this effect, but his body had gone even colder and stiffer than it had been when he’d woken up, and he felt nauseous with fear, like he might heave at any second. Before his throat had felt too dry, but now there was too much saliva from the anxiety of it. His body was preparing to vomit and Cutler knew it. He swallowed furiously and tried to breathe, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

He thought of the cell. Yes, he had made it to the cell. He though of the man in the suit, Henry Yorke. He thought of the face, the monstrous face, and it had been a dream, like the men in the corridor, but it wasn’t a dream now. It was coming up now, he could feel it through his throat, which still felt dry and awful even with the saliva and vomit. His eyes were watering, so he didn’t blink, lest this man think he was crying, which he had learned from a young age that me must not ever do. He could taste the acid at the back of his throat, he convulsed, and swallowed. His hands were shaking. His body twitched a few times, and it was over.

How that Cutler’s vision had cleared, he saw that Mr. Yorke’s eyes had returned to hazel.

“Congratulations,” said Mr. Yorke. “I was hoping for a bit more drama to entertain me, but I’m pleased that you are tougher than you look. I thought you might faint again. I’m glad you managed to refrain from sullying my carpet. I suppose I should tell you that you didn’t really faint during our first encounter. You did lose consciousness from the blood loss, but that’s only fair, because I was buried up to my gums in your carotid artery. It was so much fainting as it was _dying_ , but don’t distress yourself over it; I’ve brought you back, though not quite to the land of the living.”

“No,” said Cutler.

Mr. Yorke made a condescending expression, but otherwise ignored the protest. “This is my home. I brought you here after killing you and feeding you my blood.”

Cutler twitched at the mention of blood. “You’re mad. You think you can knock me out, frighten me with some prop fangs and makeup and make me think that you’re, what, a vampire? And that I’m a vampire too? I suppose you have a trick mirror as well? I am a very busy man, Mr. Yorke, and I have no time for games.” Cutler stood up.

“Good,” said Mr. Yorke. “Nor do I. This bit always bores me, anyhow. The bit where I convince you vampires are real and so on. Please, let’s just skip to the end.” Mr. Yorke rang a bell.

The maid entered carrying a tea tray. She set a fine china cup and saucer in front of Mr. Yorke and Cutler. When she took the kettle in her hands, she pursed her lips like she might cry.

_What perfume is that? Delicious._ And the smell that came from the kettle. He was so very hungry and thirsty. He’d never smelled such wonderful tea in his life.

“Leave it. I’ll serve him myself,” said Mr. Yorke, and the maid left, taking careful steps to keep herself from running. Cutler knew how she felt, but he had to stay for tea. The door shut behind her. “Sit down,” said Mr. Yorke. Cutler sat. He had to. “Earlier you used the word ‘vampire.’ What do you know about vampires?” Mr. Yorke picked up the tea kettle and held it over Mr. Cutler’s glass, about to pour, and waited.

“They’re in films,” whispered Cutler. He could just barely smell it, coming from the spout.

“And what do vampires do?” asked Mr. Yorke.

“Kill people. Seduce ladies in gauzy nightgowns.”

Mr. Yorke laughed. “Yes, good. Do remember that for later, should you have some sort of identity crisis. What’s the main thing vampires do? Anyone can kill someone. Anyone can seduce ladies in—was it gauzy nightgowns? Well, not anyone, but it doesn’t take a vampire to do it. Tell me, Mr. Cutler, what makes a vampire a vampire, and I shall pour you this cup while it’s still hot.”

Cutler’s body was spasming. His lungs felt too tight to draw in the requisite air for speaking, but he really wanted something to drink, so he said, “Drink blood.”

Mr. Yorke smiled coldly, and poured the kettle. It was red and thicker than tea ought to be, but Cutler had stopped fooling himself into thinking this man was going to serve him tea sometime during the little quiz session. The maid had brought no sugar, no milk, and no spoons to stir with.

“The kettle does an excellent job of keeping it warm. It’s fresh, and we only drew a little.” Mr. Yorke poured himself a cup as well. “We’ll get to killing and seducing ladies soon. For now, the proof. You know what it is. Drink it, and you’ll know what you are too.”

Cutler drank it. He drank it because he wanted it. He wanted it because he was a vampire. When it was gone, he licked the teacup quite obscenely. He heard Mr. Yorke laughing in the distance. He came to himself long enough to ask, “Have you got any more?”


End file.
